


Dogpile

by Ziel



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mook Horror Show, Oneshot, Original Character-centric, Robbery, Skags (Borderlands), gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziel/pseuds/Ziel
Summary: Being a bandit on Pandora is pretty fuckin rad. No one cares if you don't shower, or if you dabbled in cannibalism that one time. Or that your besties are a bunch of shitty skags. Did someone say convoy raid? Because it's convoy raid time, assholes!





	Dogpile

 

Fun fact: No one knew how many types of skag there were.

Not the elemental variations that seemed to crawl outta the woodwork, but the actual various species of Pandoran Skag. According to the Pandora wiki, _Pandorum Skaggat_ referred to every single goddamn skag, from the tiniest pup to the mighty Skagzilla herself.

I was using my half-hour with the ECHO to research the grimy little bastards, and, as it turned out, there was a reason nobody had bothered to go further.

Nobody gave a fuck.

Pandorans as a whole, hated skags. Like, a lot. They were above even varkids on the hate-o-meter, and only the finest ass-hair below those fucking Claptraps. Skags fell into a number of broad categories: too dangerous, too disgusting, not valuable enough, smell like shit, not cute – that made them utterly unpalatable to researchers. Vault Hunters hated them for being generally obnoxious goblins. Bandits loathed them for being scavengers and a constant danger in the borderlands.

Even Hyperion, source of the giant eyesore of the skies, hated skags. I’d heard rumors that half those planet-shaking laser blasts from Helios were really just an excuse to obliterate Pandoran wildlife.

They-

“Bitch! Hurry the fuck up, I’m at half-mast out here, and the ECHO better be porn-tastic when I get in there.”

...and now my train of thought just hit a truck full of distraction, splattering tiny thought-bandits over six miles of track and painting the wasteland with their bandit guts.

I stumbled up from the ECHO terminal just in time for Tusk to shove the door open. Creepy bastard had a bottle of lotion under one arm, and the other already angling towards his pants.

I still had three minutes on my turn, but there was something to be said about not having to see someone’s dick before noon. The battle not fought and all that shit.

Tusk was laughing his scrawny ass off even as I slammed the door behind me.

The Pandoran sun was enough to stagger me, the heat like a punch in the face after the chill inside the terminal room. Our camp was clustered around one of the massive pipeworks that ran across the planet’s surface. This one carried water. It kept the surface of the pipe cool, even when the sun was hot enough to boil eyes on a flat rock.

All of our shacks were up on stilts, jammed right up against the pipe. Only way to manage the heat out here. Actually… speaking of which-

“Kurgan, get out the sun, man!” I yelled.

The psycho was standing on top of the pipe. It was hard to see him through the glare, but nobody else was crazy enough to bake themselves like that. He moved, his mask turning to face me.

I waved. Kurgan waved back. Then pointed up, jabbing a finger at the sun.

“The widening eye is glad today!” he shouted.

Every patch of exposed skin- basically everything above the waist but his face, was sunburnt to a shiny, painful, lobster-red. How was he not dead yet? Or insane from sun poisoning? I’d had it before. The itching was enough to drive you bugfuck.

“You got any water?”

Kurgan tugged a canteen out of the waistband of his baggy pants. “Without water, I have no blood!”

He wasn’t wrong. I shrugged and kept walking. Psychos were called that for a reason. The ones like Kurgan, who lived long enough to have more scars than skin, had the Devil’s own luck. He’d probably fry until he passed out, or until the sun went down, whichever came first. I didn’t really have any expectation this would kill him.

Metal sheets bridged the wobbly platforms that supported our camp. I navigated across to the next section. Lucas was patrolling, head bowed under a wide-brimmed hat.

“Yo.”

He nodded back to me. “Dogpile.”

“See anything?”

“Nothing. A couple rakks flew by earlier, but they kept going. Nothing else though.”

“Ah.”

Conversation died pretty quickly when one of the people was a bandit named _Lucas_. Still had no idea what his issue was, or why he hadn’t picked a cooler name. Not like my parents had named me Dogpile when I popped out.

I shuffled away after a few, awkward moments of us staring at each other.

Lucas started his patrol again, and I continued on toward my shack. My little hut was crammed between two others. The bread to my sandwich meat had been nomads, once upon a time, but one had gotten eaten by a spiderant, and the other had gotten mysteriously shot in the face after he wouldn’t stop doing rhythm gymnastics after midnight. Now they were both empty. Nobody had really wanted to move in, and I didn’t really have anything to fill them with.

Unlike most of the scrap metal boxes that the rest of the tribe lived in, my hut was only _mostly_ scrap metal. It had been a storage room for some kind of pumping equipment at some point, but by the time we showed up, it had been inactive and obsolete. I’d scrapped most of the clunkier shit, and the rest was… cozy, in a metal cube full of other metal objects sort of way.

I tugged open the door and breathed deeply, taking in the thick, musky scent of my hut.

“Who missed me?”

Apparently no one, because the three mongrel skags sitting on my bed didn’t even get up. Didn’t hurt my feelings more than a lot.

“Fuck you too, guys.”

I ditched my gear and slammed the door, turning the wheel to lock it. Worf scooted a bit to the side on the bed as I approached, but Murderface was flat on her back on my pillow, and snarled at me when I nudged her.

“Move. It’s mine.”

Rat was dutifully imitating her boss now by snarling at me. I bared my teeth right back at her. Weedy little brat. Thought she might be a spitter. She ever grew into that, she might have more pull, but for now, she was a runt.

“My. _Bed_.”

She pussed out almost immediately, but Murderface wasn’t budging.

“Fine.”

I sacked out right in the middle of the mattress, using the alpha bitch as a pillow. Murderface complained for a moment, but only until I started rubbing her belly with the back of my head.

It probably looked as stupid as it sounds, and there was a reason I didn’t let the other bandits see this shit. But they didn’t know skags.

There were things I couldn’t get by running with the pack. ECHO. Toilet paper. Food that skags hadn’t regurgitated.

But those things were few and far between. And none of them quite measured up to that quiet moment where Murderface decided she’d bitched enough, Rat got tired of whining, and Worf just got tired, and they all flopped into place. Two heads on my chest, and my own bumpy noggin smack dab in the center of a shaggy skag belly.

Every breath Murderface took lifted my skull a bit, but I could hear her hearts. Skags had a couple. Hadn’t figured out how many yet, and it was one of those topics researchers didn’t give a fuck about.

I wasn’t a scientist. My parents had been some kinda tech-people from when Atlas first came to Pandora, but they were both long dead. Still wasn’t quite sure what they’d made their living doing. But I had to get this curiosity from somewhere, I guess.

Maybe next time we went hunting, we could run down a wild skag and see what made it tick. My pack wouldn’t mind. They didn’t mind much of anything, long as they got fed and got to sleep in the bed at night.

Skags were pretty fucking-a that way. They were shitty, smelly, scavenging, cannibalistic, kinda rapey, ugly, and just plain ornery, but they’re also _honest_.

Skags don’t lie to ya.

Thoughts in that vein entertained me for a while, slowing as I neared sleep. Not much to do during the day on Pandora but sleep. Too hot for much else.

Someone banged on the door.

I rolled over and pressed a pillow over my head.

They banged again. Metal on metal. Loud and obnoxious.

“Dogpile! Hey, Dogpile!”

“Sod off!”

More banging. “Convoy’s comin!”

I sat up.

The pack were looking at me.

“Fuck the hell yes! We hunt!” I howled.

I rolled out of bed, and the skags came with me, gamboling around the room while I grabbed my shit.

Mask on. No self-respecting bandit would be seen without one. Mine was a half-job. Went over my chin and mouth, the outside metal molded into jagged fangs. I finished it off with a pair of goggles. Hit a dust cloud at 160mph without em? Say goodbye to your eyes. Pandoran dust was a-fucking-brasive.

Bag loaded. Full of misc supplies and stuff. Mostly just emergency kits and rations in case of the worst. Hadn’t needed them yet, but eh, whatever. Most important was the disc hanging from the strap. I unclipped it and held it out to Murderface.

“C’mere and get your stuff.”

She knew this routine by now. I dunno if she really understood it, but she knew it all the same. Murderface padded over and I strapped the shield onto her flank. A tap, and it activated, a second skin of blue light flashing over her for an instant.

Worf and Rat had armor as well, but theirs was more mundane. Each got a coat of scrap metal, all jags and spikes, angled to protect their vitals, leave their mouths open, and allow them full mobility. Sounds more complicated than it really was. Basically just meant their top half was armored. I’d like to get them all shields, but the tribe wasn’t exactly rich, and if we didn’t scavenge it, we didn’t have it.

Maybe some day.

I grinned. Maybe today.

My own vest was padded and armored a lot like the two smaller skags, but I’d get most of Murderface’s shield as long as I was riding her. The plates would catch stray bullets, but I wasn’t worried. As long as we kept moving, this would be fine. Convoys never had enough gunslingers to put up much of a fight.

My gun went on a strap around my back. Basic bandit-made pistol. I wasn’t a fan of it, personally. It jammed a lot, and the gunpowder smell made the skags sneeze.

My weapon was a little more… _us._ The boomsticks were propped in a corner, waiting for me.

I took one in hand, and stuck two more in my belt holster.

There was shouting and banging from outside as the troupe geared up, and it was time we joined them.

“Let’s ride!” I yanked open the door and we burst out.

The skags were already barking wildly, heads raised to scent for prey. I ignored them and ran to the railing. Other tribe members were gathered there already, more joining us by the second.

Lucas was there, checking his gun and gear with a quick pat-down.

“Convoy?” I asked.

He pointed.

Our camp sat against the pipeworks, but the area we were at was on a rise. We had an unrestricted view for miles to the west. And far off, growing nearer by the second, was a dust cloud.

One plume usually meant a buggie or a single traveler. Probably a vault hunter or some kinda scientist. Not usually worth the effort of going after. But there were multiple plumes today. A group, traveling together. A convoy.

Coulda been a rival tribe, but it was doubtful. Like, really doubtful. We didn’t have any shit worth another tribe mobilizing to come get.

But ten miles to the east of our camp was a town. Dollars to dead babies that the convoy was headed straight there. And the fastest way to town was through us. Any detours would add miles to their trip, and it was a long way from the last stop.

They’d risk it. They always risked it. And if they had a change of heart?

There was a roar of engines below as our five buggies came to life. The engines gunned and revved, exhausts sending out acrid, poisonous yellow smoke.

Our fuel came from another pipeline a couple miles away. We didn’t have the refining process the cities did, so the stuff was caustic enough to eat through skin. That we had cars at all was a goddamn miracle.

The platform we were on rattled, reverberating from a sound louder than even the buggy engines.

I raised my fist in salute. Anyone around me paying attention was doing the same, save for the few psychos too fucked up to tell the difference.

The boss thudded toward us, his elephantine boots clanging on metal with each step. Dude was big. Like- I dunno if he had a pituitary disorder, or he got bit by a radioactive giant as a kid, but he was a nomad as big as a bullymong. Dude was _big._

Oh, and his name was Skullfuck.

He earned it.

“What’re all you grots standin round saluting at? Get out there and get the loot!”

Not a man of many words, Skullfuck. He didn’t wait to see if we listened. Instead, he turned, walked straight off the platform and landed on the center buggy. There was a crash of breaking metal, and the engine squealed shrilly in protest, all while the unfortunate bastards caught underfoot were screaming.

The buggy looked like a go-cart underneath him, but dude just pulled his feet up, drew his guns, and slapped the driver on the back of the head. The driver floored it.

That was enough signal for the rest of us. We poured down the rickety stairs to the sand below, everybody swarming for a place on the buggies. The steel roll cages were already filling up, bandits clinging anywhere there weren’t sawblades and spikes welded on.

I turned. The skags were standing uneasily at the base of the stairs, well away from any people.

“Cmon, you gonna run the whole way?”

I grabbed a hook on the back of the fourth buggy and hauled myself into the back. It was one of the ones with a truck bed, and jammed with other goons, but I started shoving the minute I got in.

“Clear the fuck up! Make some fucking space!”

One of the new guys, some weedy clown who didn’t know the score, started to pull his pistol. “Shove me again, assho-”

I pointed. “Sic em.”

Murderface’s jaws closed around the back of his head. Her hooked fangs slid smoothly into his skull, and I had an unenviable view of his face as his brain ruptured. His jaw worked, eyes went wide, mouth opened, closed, and then poured blood. His eyes rolled back, his limbs spasming, flailing against the few dumb bastards who hadn’t already scrambled away. And then Murderface jerked her neck and pulled away with a mouth full of oozing flesh.

Only then did he die.

I shoved him out of the buggy.

“Up!”

Murderface leapt up to replace him, her weight enough to rock the buggy on its axles. Worf and Rat joined us a moment later. It took a bit of jockeying among the skags and the bandits, but we finally found spots just as the buggy revved into action.

Arcs of sand kicked up behind us as the buggy went roaring out of camp. It was all downhill to the convoy, and I found myself standing, holding on to the back of the cab, howling and screaming with the others.

The other bandits, I mean. Nothing gets the blood pumping like a fight.

The skags were mostly quiet. Rat was licking the blood from Murderface’s maw, and Worf had his head over the side of the bed, mouth opened happily to catch the breeze.

Ahead, a sudden burst of gunfire split the engine noise. Tracer rounds, and a handful of green corrosion shells flashed from the lead buggy towards the convoy. They were close enough to see clearly now.

Two cargo trucks, with four smaller escort buggies. The trucks were big and slow, but one had a heavy machinegun mounted on the top, and men hauling themselves out of a hatch to it. The escorts were more like our buggies. Smaller all-terrain vehicles with a central turret.

Two of the escorts moved forward to intercept. Their turrets opened up, spraying fire towards Skullfuck’s car. Say what you will about him- I wouldn’t recommend it. Dude is named that for a reason. But he just ducked his head and grabbed a nearby bandit to use as a human shield. Cool as a fucking cucumber.

Our second and third cars were near enough to join the fray now. They returned fire with sawblade launchers. The metal discs were slow, but they’d tear the shit out of the trucks if they landed, and all it took was one to take out a wheel.

The trucks didn’t stop moving. Skullfuck’s car was forced to veer aside from them, and our formation split. Two cars went with him. Ours and another went the opposite way. One of the buggies following Skullfuck was too slow, and the lead truck t-boned it. It had a cow-catcher type wedge of metal on the front, almost a dozer blade. The wedge split the buggy in two, an explosion ripping the sand a moment later, spraying shrapnel and body parts across the desert, not slowing the truck for a second.

The heavy turret on the back of the second truck was swiveling, tracking Skullfuck’s group.

Our buggy was close enough now. The gunner announced it with a salvo of machinegun fire, peppering the first truck. The other bandits in the car lifted their guns. A barrage of mixed rounds went toward the truck. Most fell short, and it didn’t look like any did anything to the thick armor.

Two of the escorts moved in to flank us and protect the convoy. Any semblance of order in our truck broke down. Everyone began firing at whatever caught their eye. Bullets went everywhere.

I ducked, pulling the skags to the floor of the bed with me.

Rat was whining.

“It’s alright. Almost time.” I straightened up and banged on the back window of the cab. “Get us closer to the truck!”

The driver gave me the finger, but she still jerked the wheel and slammed the buggy into the side of one of the escorts. The escort’s turret fired wildly, but we were too close to hit. The bullets sailed uselessly overhead, even as bandits leapt aboard.

The escort driver took a buzzaxe to the face, the car slowing for a moment as they dumped his body. One of the psychos took the wheel, still waving his bloody axe, and gunned it. The escort rocketed forward and rammed another one in the rear.

And just like that, there was a hole in their formation.

Our driver closed the gap. We came up alongside the truck without a turret. Just as we got without boarding distance, a hatch in the side opened and a man leaned out. He had some beautiful fucking piece of Maliwan tech in his hands, and aimed it directly at us.

 _Fucking finally_.

My boomstick was ready. I mashed the button and the pole unfolded. A telescoping spear shot out, the tip digistructing from nothingspace, just in time to gore into the convoy man’s chest.

The tip of the spear was just a sharpened piece of metal attached to a fat cylinder, and the whole apparatus snapped off as the man staggered back into the hatch.

“Fire in the hole!” I screamed, ducking down.

The grenade attached to the speartip went off seconds later, gouting smoke and flame from the truck’s hatches. The truck swerved wildly, the driver fighting against the rampant fires and explosions from his cargo bay.

I tapped the butt of the spear against the bed, and it digistructed a new one.

Fanciest fucking piece of equipment I owned, and it was basically just a grenade you stabbed people with.

Hell yes was I proud of it.

Almost as proud as I was of my pack.

“Jump!” I yelled at the skags, pointing at the truck. The sides were thickly armored, but it was plates and scrap metal, not unlike the way we armored shit. Which meant there were plenty of spots to grab on.

Murderface came to her feet. I pulled myself onto her back, seated on the flat carapace of her dorsal armor. Normal skags were probably only 80 or 90 pounds. Not enough for more than a kid to sit on. But Murderface was an alpha, and even now, not in her full growth yet, she was big enough to carry me without effort.

We led the charge. Murderface crouched and then sprang, clearing the eight feet between the truck and buggy with ease. I held on tight to her as she set her claws into the side of the truck and climbed. In seconds, we stood atop the truck, Murderface’s claws kicking up sparks from the metal roof. Worf and Rat joined us a moment later, and I directed them to stand behind her, letting her take the brunt of the wind.

We forged forward.

A hatch opened ahead, and another tanker popped out. Either these dudes were transporting some serious Maliwan tech, or he’d grabbed the other guy’s gun, because he had another fancy ass Maliwan SMG in hand.

The _rata-tat-tat_ of SMG fire was almost lost in the wind, but the shots were clear. Superheated bullets, hot enough to catch fire in midair, splattered against Murderface’s shield in a spray of napalm.

She bellowed in anger and charged. I ducked low, keeping my head down until we were in striking distance.

Other hatches opened up further up the trailer. More guards were emerging. Their covering fire was enough to stagger Murderface where she stood, and the other two skags were cowering behind her.

The Maliwan guy yelled something triumphant, still spraying fire rounds at us.

I hefted my boomstick and threw it.

He was still yelling when it pierced his throat. He gurgled, then toppled back down the hatch. The explosion that followed was a delightful cluster blast- dozens of smaller explosions marked the passage of bomblets it had thrown off.

The shaft portion of the spear reconstructed in my hand. Couldn’t pick what grenades it made, but I wasn’t complaining.

“Go!”

We advanced up the car, Murderface moving slowly but steadily, setting her claws into the metal with every step. Behind us, Rat and Worf dove down the first hatch. Screams echoed up in their wake.

I threw and reconstructed my boomstick twice more- missed the first, nailed another guard on the second.

There were more yells from the rear of the truck as other bandits leapt over to join us. A few made it. Others went spinning off into the dust or were ground under the wheels. The ones who did catch hold were launching themselves down the hatches like the two smaller skags had.

Eager bastards. Murderface was too big to fit down a turret hatch, and I wouldn’t leave her. Besides, she had the only shield.

Another hatch popped open right beside us. Murderface took the poor fucker’s face off, and he lived just long enough to scream before I glimpsed the other two latch hold of his legs.

There was blood spraying out of the side armor on the truck as the other bandits went to work with buzzaxes and small arms. The noises busting their way out of the hatches was ear-splitting. Gunfire in a giant tin can, mixed with rusty chainsaws.

But they were occupied with the small-fry.

I tapped Murderface’s shoulder spike, and she charged toward the cab. The desert air was tearing through my scalp, whistling through holes in my mask. It tasted like death, but goddamn if I wasn’t laughing my head off.

She landed on top of the cab hard enough to dent it. The goons inside answered with a hail of gunfire through the roof, and Murderface yelped with pain, stumbling suddenly as a round ripped off one of her toes.

I clenched my knees on her ribs. “Back! Steady, girl. Steady.”

The alpha took a moment to respond, shaking her thorny head, but when I slapped her flank, she moved. We leapt back to the trailer just in time to avoid more fire.

She whined, maw oozing froth, trying to bend to see her wound.

“Stay.” I patted her, then dismounted.

And nearly fell off the fucking truck. Because fuck me if scavenged boots didn’t have the best tread. Murderface’s bulk kept me from tumbling backwards, and she stopped licking her wounds to glance at me.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a retard, you don’t have to tell me.”

I retracted my boomstick and holstered it. Time for a little payback. I crept back up the trailer, nearly crawling, using both hands to clutch the roof.

There was a cacophony of banging from below- probably the other bandits trying to bust down the door to the cab. Stuff was so damn armored that they’d have better luck blasting down a bank vault. But they were yelling and hollering, and seemed to be enjoying it, so whatever.

When I reached the edge, the armored accordion coupling between the trailer and cab swerving below me, I stopped. Time to keep it simple.

Boomstick, prepare to meet windshield. It-

A deafening explosion echoed from off to the right. I turned, swearing, to see the other cargo truck go up in a fireball, taking the last guard buggy and another one of ours with it. Skullfuck, who seemed to have mounted the truck like I did, went spiraling off like a meteor. He landed way off, tumbled, then righted himself.

I could still hear the hardy cunt yelling even as the last car left him behind. We were down to two bandit buggies, and one stolen guard buggy, all of which were now converging on the truck.

Bullets whistled overhead, and I shot the finger back at whoever was pegging shots at me. Which dipshit couldn’t tell a bandit from a caravaner? That’s what the masks were fucking _for_.

That, and they looked cool.

Whatever. Time to get moving before someone stole my glory.

I grabbed a boomstick, not extending it, just letting the grenade and tip form. The blue light of digistruction faded, and I pitched it forward, a lazy underhand throw.

The grenade bounced once on the top of the cab, then rolled forward, dropping down to the windshield. A second later, it went off, not on the hood, but in the dirt off to the side.

Fuse was too long on that one. And I couldn’t cook ‘em, not when the grenades were randomly generated.

Another try then.

It generated a squat, squash of a bomb. Looked like a slow exploder.

I tossed it.

The stupid thing teleported in mid-air, reappeared five feet ahead, and then dropped neatly onto the hood, where it stuck, defying all physics.

Oh shit, this was gonna be fun.

I ducked and covered.

The truck shook as the grenade detonated. The windshields were armored with metal bars, but there was usually still glass behind them. Judging by the sudden, agonized screaming, the driver and shotgun had just found that out first-hand.

The vehicle swerved, beginning to curve off to the left. Either I’d just broken the steering, or the driver was face-down in the dashboard.

But just for good measure…

I hucked a couple more grenades onto the cab. Judging by the clunk, then a hollow _thud_ from inside the cab, there was a very convenient hole in the windshield that it had just entered.

My next judgment was slightly less sound. Being point-blank to a grenade blowing the top and doors off the cab like a tin can. Smoke burst from every hole, and I staggered back, ears ringing, the world suddenly silent.

Oh, and my shirt was on fire.

My attempt to stop, drop, and not roll off the truck was stymied when Murderface slapped a paw into my back, then spat all over me. It quenched the flames, with the unfortunate side-effect of smelling like a dead body in a septic tank.

Still, not on fire. I grabbed a first-aid hypo from my bag.

Murderface got the first hit. She gave me one of those weird “the fuck you doin?’ stares that most animals seem to know as her toe bubbled and regrew. I jammed the second one into my thigh. Took care of any burns handily. They weren’t as serious as they could be, but infections on Pandora were a death sentence, and being covered in skag drool was a good way to get one.

Cleared up my hearing too.

“Who’s my special girl?”

She licked the side of my mask. Peeled the paint a bit, but whatever.

Meanwhile, the truck was slowing down, the cab a flaming wreck, and the commotion from whatever shootout the boys had been having in the trailer had died out.

I kneeled down and stuck a head into one of the other hatches. The trailer interior was a disasterpiece. Half the lights were shot out. Boxes and crates were now pocked with bullets or shredded with buzzaxe marks. It-

I turned my head just in time to see Kurgan swinging a buzzaxe at me. The sun-dried asshole was somehow lucid enough to stop mid-swing.

“Fuck, Kurgan! Watch it.”

The psycho grinned at me. I dunno how I knew, with him wearing a full-face mask, but fucked if I did. “Walking skag! Your beasts were first to the meat buffet.”

He pointed. Worf and Rat both smiled happily up at me, drenched maw to tail in gore. Actually, now that I looked, the whole goddamn trailer was about an inch or two deep in blood. There were bits of the caravaners floating in it.

Two more psychos stumbled over, followed by a lumbering nomad.

“Hey. Blew up the cab, so the truck’s gonna stop soon.” Maybe a minute tops, so long as nobody’s corpse fell on the accelerator. “You guys find any cool shit?”

Kurgan held up another garish Maliwan gun. “There are many fireworks in this hotdog.”

Psycho A held up a human hand. Psycho B held up another human hand. They then made the hands high-five. Holy shit, how had I not talked to these rad bastards sooner?

The nomad grumbled a bit before picking up one of the crates. Just as Kurgan had said, it was filled with rows of Maliwan tech packed in foam.

My eyes went wide. “Any shields? I gotta get some fucking shields for the skags.”

The truck finally lurched to a halt, and I grabbed the edge of the hatch so I didn’t go spinning off. Murderface skidded a bit before she caught herself with her claws. I leaned back out to talk to her.

“Sit. Sit down. We’re fine. Everyone’s okay.”

She plunked herself down in the center of the roof, claws still planted firmly in the metal.

Back to the gank squad in the trailer. “But seriously, any shields?”

Psycho B popped the top off another crate. And inside, a long, vertebral shape. Dozens of shields lined up and strapped in.

“I love you guys so damn much right now.”

“Our love for you reciprocates with the burning intensity of a thousand melting babies!”

“I was talking to the skags, Kurgan!”

Outside, there was a crunch of tires on sand as the buggies began coming to a halt. I sat up and began to slide down the hatch. Possession was nine-tenths and all that. If I wanted shields, I was gonna need to lay claim now.

“Hey!” someone shrieked. One of the bandits outside had stopped, standing atop their buggy. They pointed out to the horizon. “Some shit’s coming this way!”

A dust plume. Thin and tan, shot through with crimson from the clay in the soil.

But just one? Back-up for the caravan, or just some unlucky bastard?

The last of our buggies came grinding up, suspension dragging under the weight of a very battered Skullfuck.

“Boss, we got guests,” shouty bandit said.

He turned his massive head. Pretty sure I could see skull through some of his roadrash. “Let em come. Then we’ll git em. Easy shit.”

From the mouths of babes.

Everyone outside started drawing weapons again.

I leaned down the hatch. “Another buggy’s comin if you still wanna fight.”

Psychos A and B exchanged a look, then hustled for the back of the trailer. They had the back gate popped and lowered before I could blink. Kurgan just shrugged and went back to making an ear necklace. The nomad sighed, and started unloading crates into the dirt.

I whistled to Rat and Worf. “Cmon. You two, to me.”

They scrabbled their way up the hatch, Rat first, Worf on her heels. The pack reformed, centered around me. I kept a hand on Murderface, ready to mount if needed.

The dust trail grew larger. Light glinted off a windshield in the distance. And… off the hood. And doors. And roof. Not just glass, but the gleam of metal.

I squinted. “The fuck is that?” Looked like it was bright yellow or something. Like they were driving a giant beacon through the desert.

One of the bandits looked down her scope and screeched. “Gold! A mother-fucking gold-plated buggy.”

What.

The trail stopped. The buggy came to a halt maybe a quarter-mile out. Tough to see through the heat haze, but I could see someone get out. They were... tall and thin. Dressed in bright, sky-blue. Might be dark-skinned, but my eyes weren’t great.

Skullfuck grabbed the rollcage on the nearest car. “Plan’s changed. Go git em.” He heaved himself up, climbing into the vehicle. “Let’s-”

His head blew apart.

A second later, the sound of a rifle shot split the silence.

“Sniper! Get-” Shouty bandit took a round to the throat and went down choking on their own blood.

I rolled off the top of the trailer. The skags leapt down behind me, and we ran for it. The trailer was jack-knifed slightly, at an angle to the cab, enough for us to shelter behind it, using the massive tires as shields.

The skags were whining, uneasy, not understanding.

“Stay. Stay. Down. Stay. Just- don’t move. Stay with me.”

Gunshots. Guys trying to shoot back at the sniper. Pointless. They were impossibly far away.

Return fire. The sharp crack of a rifle. Two. Three. Four times. Bodies hit the dirt.

One went down not far away, draped over the hood of a car.

Someone tried to dive into the stolen buggy. Shots punctured the front tire, then two more cut through the driver’s seat. Blood painted the windshield. It painted, then froze, drying to a tacky scab color.

Cryo weapons. Didn’t think any of those made it down from Elpis.

A bellow of pain as one of the nomads went down. He kept yelling, still alive. Other howls as men and women died, trying to run toward or from the shooter.

I stayed behind the tire, arms wrapped around the skags to keep them from running themselves.

A break in the gunfire. A deathly silence. I could hear my own heartbeat, rapid, scared fucking shitless. Things had shifted so rapidly that my thoughts kept going back to the shields, and I had to jerk them on course.

Sniper. Here. Now. Everyone was dying.

The nomad was still crying out, but weaker and weaker.

There were others sheltering like I was. Psycho A had B in his lap, holding a hand over B’s gut wound. Tusk tried to run from his spot in a divot in the earth to join them, only to take a bullet. His knee blew out in a spray of red powder- frozen blood, and he dropped. Not dead- the wound had iced over. He managed to crawl another five feet before the sniper put one through the back of his head.

A hoarse yell in the distance. A gunshot. Kurgan died, and I could hear his buzzaxe sputter out.

B shuddered and went still. Psycho A sat there for a long moment. And then he stood up with his arms outstretched. The sniper clipped him. A purposeful miss. They took his finger off. His hand. His arm. Then shattered his mask with one neat hole through the forehead.

I had front-row seats to watch the tribe die.

People that I knew. Some by name. Meatjockey. Rampage. Turbomegabitch. Lucas.

Some by face. The scarred midget who kept our ECHO running. A psycho who was convinced the skags were alien spies, but fed them scraps all the same. Bandits I’d played poker with. Eaten with.

Men and women and other weird fucks, all of who I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. They all died. And I fucking hated it. Not like this. We were all gonna die, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this.

Not-

The fat rubber of the tire burst behind me. Rat yelped.

“No!”

She gurgled. Fell over.

“NO!”

Crack. A bullet ricocheted off one of the armor plates and hit one of the few bandits still under cover.

Trick shots. They could have hit us any time. This was just a game to them.

Crack. _Spang._ Something warm and wet sprayed my face. Worf toppled.

Someone was screaming. I was screaming.

Something inside me broke.

“Run! Run!” I slapped Murderface’s hide, dragging myself onto her back. Cranked her shield to full. “GO!”

She launched herself from cover. I kept low to her back, cutting down the wind resistance, urging her faster, forcing her to juke and jive with my knees, never running in a straight line.

The first round hit me in the back. The shield shattered with an electric screech. A line of searing cold dragged itself up one side of my ribs, the tattered edges of my vest held in place by frost.

“RUN! GOD DAMN YOU RUN!”

Murderface snarled, pushing her massive body to its limit. Sand kicked up in her wake like a buggy.

“YOU CAN DO IT! RUN!”

I was looking down, and in the adrenaline rush, I saw everything in slow-motion.

The bullet that killed her came in from an angle.

It entered through my right leg, just above the knee. The force of the shell ripped my leg in half. Red snow puffed, just like with Tusk. It parted Murderface’s armor, passing neatly between two gaps in her plates, and exited her body on the other side in an arterial spray of murky skag blood.

Murderface went down like her strings had been cut.

We tumbled.

I hit first. I was still screaming. My leg was gone. I hit and rolled, rough sand tearing at my skin. Murderface came down on top of me.

We rolled together, rider and mount, spinning, spinning, spinning-

 

XXX

 

Jostling woke me.

The skags were probably fussing, wanting to eat.

Just… why had we gone to sleep in the sand? Too much cactus juice again.

And… there was pain, resurfacing, awful and oh so fucking real. Couldn’t hardly breathe. Weight pressing down. Ribs smashed. Leg frozen, blown to hell. And-

Oh god. Oh god damn it.

She was on top of me. A giant hunk of dead flesh, already cooling.

No. No no no nononoNO

...

Footsteps. Lazy, taking their time. Boots crunching sand.

A shadow blocked out the sky.

I blinked away tears. My goggles had gotten ripped off at some point.

A brown-skinned woman in an elaborate clusterfuck of a blue dress coat stared down at me. She looked down her nose at me, skunk-striped hair twitching in the wind, and then looked on.

“Jenkins. I like the expression on this one’s face. Get the head.”

“Of course, madam.”

She vanished, replaced by some Jeeves looking motherfucker. He had a knife in one hand, a bag in the other.

“Th-the fuck… you doing?” I wheezed.

He looked at me like she had. Like I was skag shit. A piece of shit that had learned to talk.

And then he started to work on Murderface’s head with the knife.

I was screaming again. Writhing under her corpse. One arm was pinned, probably broke to shit, but I had one free. I grabbed for him.

Too far. Couldn’t reach. Not even close. Something in my shoulder ripped under the force. Reaching. Clawing the air.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

He didn’t listen.

Just sawed off her head like she was some fucking trophy animal. Like she didn’t howl when it rained. Or always wanted to lick your face to see what you’d eaten. Like it didn’t matter how she always kept the other two in line, but was never a cunt about it. Or- or- or-

Jenkins bagged her head.

I went limp. The pain was nothing compared to _this._

The woman in blue hefted her rifle. Even that was gaudy. Ivory and silver inlay, with what looked like an entire goddamn telescope for a sight.

She looked back at me. Her lips curled.

And then she walked away.

Only one thing kept me from screaming at her: sunlight glinting on her scope. The light reflected off Murderface’s wrecked armor. The bullet hole, already ringed with flies. Her shield, burned out, broken in the fall. Dark blood dripping from the stump of her neck.

They’d ruined her.

The thought came slowly, but crystal-fucking-clear. Like the ice on my knee was spreading up my spine. Cold and clear.

They’d ruined her, but if I said anything else, the woman would blow my brains out.

I didn’t care.

Not on my behalf any more.

But if I died here, there would be no one to track her down.

I had three lives to avenge.

XXX

XXX

 

**Author's Note:**

> Pure dreck. Much like my play-through of BL1, this fic stalled out halfway through last year. Unlike BL1, I mustered the energy to finish it after a Borderlands fic about a vault hunter with animal buddies by @AtrenGraves reminded me that this thing existed. 
> 
> I just like beastmaster type characters. There's not much going on here, but it was fun to write something very actiony, with not much in the way of angst. At least until the end. The change in mood is a bit jarring, but the original concept was basically something in the vein of "skag-tamer bandit runs into player characters."
> 
> Dogpile is pretty flat as a character. Typical prefers animals to humans type. But their dialogue and narration was a lot of fun to write. Definitely nice to just break loose and do something irreverent and silly. "Bit by a radioactive giant as a kid" still makes me laugh. If was I was gonna continue the idea, I'd probably rework this, emphasize more their issues with others, insert some difficulties in interacting, or having trust issues or something. This was mostly action, so it didn't quite work out that way.


End file.
